(From the Perspective of a Philosophy-School Dropout)
Terri Brown-Davidson

I wanted epiphany in that dull white room with plaster
sifting its lung-clogging dust onto our hair follicles
or shining gray pates waxed to an Aristotelian sheen,
our collective consciousness
drifting like planets out of orbit
for each conundrum left unexplained,
Ockham’s Razor no metaphor I could grasp,
no limnable proposition but the lifestyle I aspired to,
an English-geek-cum-philosopher though I lacked, it seemed,
the logical capabilities that might help me penetrate
the impenetrable propositions the philosophiles dickered by,
I a logosphile, art-lover, they sensed, second-rate as the peeling poster of a Rothko painting, red and gold stripes suggesting
a vermillion death, which an aestheticsphobe had hung up in the classroom after proclaiming that emotions were dead.

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